h of England a
Protestant parson. Besides, if you encourage a young beginner, who knows
but he may elevate his style a little above the vulgar epithets of
profane, and saucy jack, and atheistic scribbler, with which he treats
me, when the fit of enthusiasm is strong upon him: by which
well-mannered and charitable expressions I was certain of his sect
before I knew his name. What would you have more of a man? He has damned
me in your cause from Genesis to the Revelations; and has half the texts
of both the Testaments against me, if you will be so civil to yourselves
as to take him for your interpreter; and not to take them for Irish
witnesses. After all, perhaps you will tell me, that you retained him
only for the opening of your cause, and that your main lawyer is yet
behind. Now, if it so happen he meet with no more reply than his
predecessors, you may either conclude that I trust to the goodness of my
cause, or fear my adversary, or disdain him, or what you please; for the
short of it is, it is indifferent to your humble servant, whatever your
party says or thinks of him.

* * * * *

Of all our antic sights and pageantry,
Which English idiots run in crowds to see,
The Polish[80] Medal bears the prize alone:
A monster, more the favourite of the town
Than either fairs or theatres have shown.
Never did art so well with nature strive;
Nor ever idol seem'd so much alive:
So like the man; so golden to the sight,
So base within, so counterfeit and light.
One side is fill'd with title and with face; 10
And, lest the king should want a regal place,
On the reverse, a tower the town surveys;
O'er which our mounting sun his beams displays.
The word, pronounced aloud by shrieval voice,
Laetamur, which, in Polish, is rejoice.
The day, month, year, to the great act are join'd:
And a new canting holiday design'd.
Five days he sate, for every cast and look--
Four more than God to finish Adam took.
But who can tell what essence angels are, 20
Or how long Heaven was making Lucifer?
Oh, could the style that copied every grace,
And plough'd such furrows for an eunuch face,
Could it have form'd his ever-changing will,
The various piece had tired the graver's skill!
A martial hero first, with early care,
Blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war.
A beardless chief, a rebel, e'er a man:
So young